Teapot Cards
by Avila Grace
Summary: Pam and Jim prepare for Thanksgiving dinner at the house... Well, actually, only Pam prepares, causing a fight between her and Jim. How does Jim redeem himself? Eh, read the story, leave the summary alone.


Just something I wrote quickly when we were playing The Office speculation game. The question: What would have happened if Jim gave Pam the card? Which led into the follow-up question of, what did the card say? I promise, it's in here somewhere. Sometimes, you gotta go through the other rough edges, though.

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The wooden floors in our bedroom look dirty, dusty. There are clothes everywhere, mostly his, staring up at me from their space on the floor, mocking me. Is it really _that_ hard to throw your clothes in the hamper? Honestly. If you can piss into a toilet seat, you can throw your boxer shorts into the hamper. I bend down and pick up the boxer shorts by the waistband, grimacing lightly. They smell.

My feet ache from being on them all day. Ever since I woke up I've been cleaning the house, trying to get everything spic and span before our mothers get here tonight. Whoever suggested that having Thanksgiving at our house this year was a good idea was wrong. Very wrong. It's not a good idea. It's never a good idea. Especially when your husband can't pick up his damn clothes and shoot them in the hamper.

We've only been married a few months, and honestly, they've not been too bad. He's a lot better than Roy ever was when we lived together, but he's still a long way away from my perfect man. The bathroom is always a mess. I hear it's hard to aim and shoot, but honestly, I can't imagine it would be that hard. Especially when you've had twenty five years of practice.

He loves to leave the toilet seat up. It's his little way of being passive-aggressive. He really thinks that if he leaves it up enough, I'll stop caring and will just politely pull it back down for myself. Well, until he learns to shoot and hit his target, I'm not touching that thing.

Oh, and not to mention his horrible habit of leaving his bowls in the sink, unrinsed. I really don't mind if he leaves them in there. I understand that sometimes he's in a hurry and he can get to them later. And he does get to them later. But the thing is, that sometimes, you have to at least soak your dishes. Macaroni and cheese? Cereal? These are prime examples. They crust to the bowl and then I have to work extra hard to get it off. And it makes our kitchen look like something erupted.

And the way halfway through the night he'll steal our covers, and I'll be shivering in bed, and then he'll casually let them fall on the floor. I either have to manage to slide my way out of his arms and go pick up the blanket, or I have to shiver the entire night. He doesn't know he's doing it, I'm sure… But it's still a little annoying quirk.

Overall, it's great. All of his quirks, I can normally deal with. Except for today. Today is that one day where I'm just so fed up by them and so aggravated I can't see clearly. It all comes together at one time, and he's outside playing basketball in the driveway with himself, and here I am, inside, cleaning the entire house, making grocery lists, doing everything the woman has to do for Thanksgiving to feed his sorry ass. I love my husband, I really do.

I've just thrown the last sweaty t-shirt into the hamper and picked up the can of Febreeze when he walks in the room. "Hey sweetie."

"Hi." My voice is more rigid than I intended. Ugh. I didn't want to have to talk about what I was feeling, but now that I've sounded like that, there's no letting go.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and I know even though my back is to him, he can see the tenseness in my shoulders. I shake my head lightly and spray the Ocean Breeze smell all over his side of the bed, realizing the sweat that comes from when he sleeps makes an impossibly horrid smell.

"Nothing. Have fun?" I ask, spraying the air freshener a little bit too high up and a little bit too close to his face. He coughs, "Sorry, I didn't mean to…" I say softly, side-stepping him and going to the other side of the room, not wanting to face him.

"Yeah, it was good to have some practice in," he says, following me with his eyes. I know his feet aren't moving because the wood creaks under him when he walks, but his eyes are following me. I can feel that. "Pam, what's wrong?" he asks, and I know that there's no escaping. I'm inside the bathroom, staring at the mirror. He can see my face from where he's standing, and the bathroom is so small there's no escape route or another door or anything I can climb off.

"I'm just frustrated. Don't worry, it's nothing," I say, probably a bit more fast than I should to truly convey just how fine I am.

"If it's nothing, just say it." He shrugs. That shrug sends me over the edge. I hate it when he does that. I'm not sure if he's trying to be funny, or what it is that he thinks he accomplishes with it, but it's just plain annoying. Stop shrugging.

"I'm just frustrated because your mom is coming in like three hours and the house is a mess, and I've been cleaning all day, and I just finished the grocery list, and I need to go get the stuff at the grocery store but I can't because I don't have enough time and…" I'm rambling on. I don't even know what I'm saying, but my hands are flying in the air, and I'm yelling. Not loudly, but louder than normal. Jim is just staring at me.

"And why is it that you can go outside and play basketball with yourself but I have to do all of this crap. And for god's sakes Jim, pick up your damn boxers!" I scream. He stares at me for a moment, and I stare back at him.

That's when I see it. The slow, deliberate nod. The withdrawed words as he debates just how he can phrase this delicately without causing the hormonal woman to snap. And that just about does it.

"Don't you DARE do that." I say, and I know I'm flipping out now, but I've kept it all bottled in for so long, and it's like Jim always says, the holidays are a time to tell people how you feel. "Don't you dare pull that card. That, 'she's just hormonal so I'm going to shut up for a while and let her work it all out' crap."

"I was going to say," he says, pursing his lips, and I know his anger is about to come out. He's trying so hard to keep it in, and as much as I don't want to be yelled at, I almost want his anger out. I want to yell at him, and I want him to yell at me. I want some sort of fight to come out of this. Maybe then I'll feel better. "That I can run to the store for you, if you want."

"No, you won't know what to buy," I say, and his forehead wrinkles. "I'll just do it when I'm done picking up all of your crap."

"That's why I haven't been helping you all this time!" His voice is rising, and at first, it makes me flinch because it reminds me of the way Roy used to yell at me, but then I settle a bit and I know that even though we're fighting, it's a safe fight. Jim won't leave me just because I hate picking up his underwear. "You refuse to let me help!"

"I do not!" I say, denying it vehemently, even though inside, I know he's offered to help. Now that he says that, I remember telling him he should go outside and play. But I didn't _really_ mean that. He was supposed to look past that and figure it out.

"Yeah, you do. I've offered a few times today, and every time you've told me that I "wouldn't know what to buy", or that I "don't scrub right" or whatever it is." He's yelling now, and even though I wanted to yell back, now I'm exhausted. I can feel the tears forming in my eyes, and my chest tightening. I'm about to break.

The tears start falling, and I'm not sure what to do to stop them. I'm torn between the desire to keep myself hidden from him, and to run to the one person that can always comfort me when I'm upset. He's watching me, I can feel it. I turn around, deciding to let transparency rule today, and he watches me. I look up at him, and I see his face relax as he takes in the sight of me. He puts his arms out a bit and I walk into them, his strong arms wrapping around my body as he kisses my forehead. I sniffle into his chest, and then I feel him mumbling into my hair, and it almost makes me want to giggle.

"What still has to be done?" He asks, and I want to kiss him. Any other time, he probably would have changed the subject. Tried to find something to laugh about and left me where I was, frustrated and confused. He seems to understand its not about that today. It's about getting things done. I love him for it.

I wipe my eyes on his shirt and debate blowing my nose on it, just to take advantage of the situation, but I don't. "Our bathroom has to be cleaned, the guest room has to be straightened, grocery shopping has to be done. Did you do the lawn?"

"I did the lawn," he replies, matter-of-factly.

"Then that's all." I say, pulling away from him, my mind refocused on the tasks at hand.

"Here, you go do the grocery shopping. When you get back, I'll have the rest of it done, okay?" He says, and I open my mouth to tell him he can't clean properly, and then close it. I might as well let him try it, even if I do have to go over it. I nod, hugging him for a moment as he kisses the top of my head, then offering him a small smile. I pull out of his arms, grab my keys and the list, and head to the store.

The drive over is short, only one song plays on the radio. Granted, it's a long song, but it's still only one song. The store is packed full of people, all trying to get the best kind of pecans or dinner rolls for the big feast tomorrow. It takes three trips down each aisle and four phone calls home to get me to the checkout line. Of course, I end up behind the woman who wants to pay in pennies and the man whose every credit card isn't accepted. It takes twenty four minutes to get through the express line with my green beans, gallon of milk, three pie shells, stuffing, and one turkey. Who forgets the turkey on Thanksgiving? I do, I guess.

The ride home is longer, for some reason. Three songs pass. I can't decide if it's because of the accident on Fifth, the red light on Sycamore, or that the songs are shorter, but somehow, the ride seems a lot longer. I park the car in our driveway, barely missing the mailbox when I turn in. I've always thought our driveway was a little too steep and a little too narrow for both of our cars, but my Yaris is small so we've just made do. The things you sacrifice for a terrace.

All of the last-minute food is piled in four plastic bags, and it's a juggling act to get me, the four bags, and my purse all out of the car and safely to the house while still remembering to close and lock each of the doors behind me. I hear the water running upstairs, and I know Jim's in the shower. I set the bags on the table and head up the stairs, looking around and smiling when I see he really did straighten up.

I walk into the guest room, inspecting his cleaning skills like a mother inspects her child's room. Everything is dusted and put away, the bed is made. I get on my hands and knees and look under the bed, expecting to find a few random socks or some picture or photograph, but there's nothing there. I smile. Maybe I won't have to go back over it after all. I head into the bedroom and smile, looking around. All of the pictures are dusted off and hanging neatly, the bed is made, and every last article of clothing (even mine) are picked up and thrown in the hamper. Well, except the hamper is empty, and the washer is circling. I smile, until I notice something on the bed. I can feel the groan starting deep down. So close. So close to perfection, Jim. There's always something.

I can't tell what it is. It looks like a piece of paper or a square box or something, but it's flat, and I can't make out what it would be. Or what it's doing on our bed. My feet shuffle as I make my way towards the bed, and finally, I reach it, and I smile, picking it up. It's an off-white folder, my name written across the front and underlined twice in Jim's scrawl. I turn it over to open it, when I see a small post-it note. My mind races through the words faster than I read them, the anxiousness of what's inside the envelope overtaking me. I'm not sure what Jim meant, saying this was once in the teapot, but I figure it's not important, maybe someday I'll figure it out.

I sit on the bed and pull out a Christmas card. The picture on the front is of a boy and a girl, laying on their stomachs, two mugs of hot cocoa touching and Santa hats on their head, leaning in to each other and laughing. It immediately reminds me of us, and I'm sure it reminded him of the same thing. I smile, fingering the pictures, letting my hand trace the outlines of the two best friends. I can't help but think of how perfect our friendship turned out. I hear the water stop in the bathroom as I open the Christmas card, seeing the familiar writing that doesn't even fill up a page.

_ Pam, _

_ Swaying is dancing. _

_ I love you. _

_ Jim. _

My vision blurs by the third line, and I can feel a smile coming to my face as the tears fall down my cheeks lightly. He's standing at the door, watching me. I can feel him there. So many thoughts are racing through my mind, the most prominent being that I've always believed it. In my book, swaying has always been dancing. I've just been too scared to admit it.

I look up at him and nod slightly, and he smiles. He smells good, just like he always does when he just got out of the shower. His jeans look great on him, and he's wearing a navy blue sweater that makes me want to just stare at him forever. He's so attractive, in so many ways, I can't let my eyes off of him.

But, what really gets me, is when he comes over to the bed, puts his hand out, and softly says, "Cmon, Beesly, let's sway," and I laugh because it feels so foreign and yet so natural for him to call me that. But there's nothing at all foreign about swaying in his arms.

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